It Happened In Paris

Book 1: Evie Dexter

by Molly Hopkins

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Evie Dexter is in pursuit of a career as a European tour guide. Heart set on success and buoyed on by booze, she begins 'enhancing' her CV and soon lands a job with Insignia Tours, guiding their Paris breaks. Bursting with professionalism, Evie quickly checks her copy of Vogue Paris to remind herself where France actually is. Task accomplished, she's determined to become a cultured and respected chaperone. And she would be, if only the French wine wasn't so delicious and Rob, her sexy coach driver, so deliciously distracting . . .

Release date: May 12, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

OK, I’ve cracked. I’m leaning against the fridge, glass in hand, in a state of blissful relaxation. My heart has been racing
all day with the pressure of enforced wine deprivation; I conceded defeat at seven o’clock. I would’ve had a heart attack
otherwise. Last week my doctor told me that anyone who drinks more than eight units of alcohol a week is in danger of becoming
alcohol dependent. Brandishing a plastic beaker, he illustrated what amounted to eight units. It wasn’t enough to drown a
wasp. To be honest, I suspect I may already be alcohol dependent, but I don’t care, because I depend on all sorts of things,
like make-up and credit cards. No, alcohol dependency doesn’t bother me at all. What does bother me is the fact there are
hundreds of skinny alcoholics out there. How do they stay slim and snorkel wine? I wouldn’t mind being a skinny alcoholic. I wouldn’t mind being a skinny anything.


I swirled the glass under my nose. This drink is medicinal and so much better for me than drowning myself, which I’d considered
this morning. I’ve been made redundant from the advertising agency where I’ve worked for the past ten months. OK, so this
in itself may not necessarily be deemed a life or death issue, but in celebration of being employed, I have amassed an overdraft of nine grand. I wish I’d been the victim of fraud. It would have been so much cheaper than me spending my own
money.


I ambled from the kitchen, glass in hand, jack-knifing back for the wine bottle. So, I’m unemployed and overdrawn. I owe the
bank nine thousand pounds. That’s nine hundred ten-pound notes. I swallowed a lump of panic and swiftly replaced the mental
picture of an enormous stack of ten-pound notes with a neat little bundle of fifties, and immediately felt better. Put like
that, it’s nothing.


Sitting on my bed, I opened last night’s Evening Standard with a flourish.


‘OK, Evie. Mission Employment: find a job,’ I told myself, but, typically, the Job Vacancies page had been shredded by the
letterbox, and so I found myself pondering the Lonely Hearts ads.


‘Thirty-something.’ Yeah right. Forty-four next birthday, more like. I slurped my wine.

‘Fun-loving.’ Hah, a pisshead. I flipped the page over with a dramatic sweeping gesture.

‘Seeks knight in shining armour.’ Husband’s buggered off with someone else. What she seeks is anything male with a pulse.

‘Enjoys eating out.’ Can’t cook.

‘Adventurous.’ A slut.

I tore out an advert headed ‘Hypnotism combats alcoholism’, threw the newspaper neatly on the floor, and decided for the first
time in my entire life to clear out my bedroom.


I’d just thrown open the wardrobe when my flatmate, Lulu, arrived home from work. She thumped down on the bed, kicked off
her pumps and tucked a pillow behind her head. I tossed her a fleeting look. She squirmed against the headboard, legs straight,
ankles crossed. She wore her navy nurse’s tunic with the dinky upside-down watch and white trousers. Arms folded with exaggerated purpose, she looked at her fingernails.


‘Good day?’ I asked her, sensing the opposite was likely the case.

She shrugged and went into dream mode.

‘So,’ I tried again. ‘What did you get up to?’

She gave a despairing sigh.

‘Remember I told you about David, the new doctor at my surgery? I’ve fancied him since the creation of time. I’ve positively
adored him and, well, I thought he might be the one,’ she said, in a whiny, sorry-for-herself whimper.


If I’m not mistaken, he’d actually only worked at the practice for two weeks.

‘Mmm, I do. He—’

She flapped a silencing hand.

‘I stayed at his flat last night.’

The whiny whimpering was now punctuated with watery blinks.

‘We slept together.’

I dumped a jumble of clothes, hangers and polythene bags on the bed.

‘Lucky you,’ I said, massaging my forearms. ‘I’m jealous.’ As well I might be, I thought. I haven’t had sex for twenty-eight
days.


Lulu sucked her knuckle, her face clouded over. ‘He came before me!’ she shrieked, vaulting from the bed.

I jumped.

‘He finished before I’d hardly started … twice!’

Demented with rage, she paced the room.

‘We did it twice and both times the same thing happened. It’s fraud!’ She squirrelled in her pocket, whipped out a tissue
and blew her nose. ‘It’s not acceptable behaviour, not on a first date. Perhaps after, after, five years of marriage, or on his birthday, or, or, if I’m knackered and I say he can, but, but …’ she
stuttered.


Privately, I thought it charitable of her to have given the guy a second chance. Twice!

‘He didn’t even fancy it at first. He was watching Deal or No Deal. I broke a nail tugging his belt off. Look.’


Her hand shot out in front of my face. She had indeed broken a nail. I winced.

‘He wanted to wait and see what was in the last box.’

She snorted in fury.

‘“Sod the last box,” I told him. So, he got going, and guess what? Guess what!?’ She shook her head forcefully. ‘Bet you can’t
guess. Never in a million years.’ She gave me a millisecond to speculate, and then rushed on. ‘He went into some sort of trance.
I thought of that scene in Ghost when Whoopi Goldberg was possessed by spirits. I hoped he’d been possessed by a horny marauding Viking kidnapper, but no.
I think he must have been possessed by a Victorian train driver, because he literally chugged to a halt. And then it was over.’


Her hands twisted and knotted in despair. ‘I thought I might have been possessed myself, by the Boston strangler, because
I wanted to kill him. And what makes it worse is that it was my idea.’ She pounded her chest with a clenched fist in emphasis.


Horny marauding Viking kidnapper. Gosh, I wouldn’t mind one of those myself, I mused. Imagine a gorgeous hunk of a man, hair
in a ponytail, six o’clock stubble, brandishing an enormous sword. He’d wear a leather skirt and a fur cape, and smell of
Chanel for Men. He would easily be able to lift me up to put me in his boat, and I’d look dead slim next to him. I frowned.
But what would I be wearing?


I’ll Google ‘Vikings’ for images.

Lulu stamped her foot in temper. ‘Do you have an opinion or not?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just been sexually insulted and you’re acting like nothing’s happened.’


‘Er, well, don’t upset yourself,’ I told her. At least you’ve had sex, I thought. ‘It happens, you know.’ I tilted my head
in sympathy as she marched past.


‘Not to me it doesn’t!’ she yelled. ‘I’m good at what I do.’ She tossed her hair in a circle, and folded her arms so tightly,
her fingers turned white. ‘It’s just like being a fat aerobics instructor. Tell me, have you ever wondered why they bother?
Huh, have you?’


I gazed at her. Aerobics instructors? Had I missed something?

‘Fat aerobics instructors might as well get fatter and fatter. What’s the point of working your backside off if your arse
is the size of a bus and stays that way? Well, I should just have watched Deal or No Deal.’ She jabbed her finger in my face. ‘Do you get my point?’


I nodded knowingly. Too bloody right I got her point. I’ve been to aerobics once.

‘Oh well, the next one can only be better,’ I offered, improvising.

‘Men like him should be deported,’ she snapped.

‘Where would you suggest they be deported to?’

‘Out of London for starters.’

I held a dress in front of me, gazed in the mirror and wondered how many vinos I’d had when I bought it. It was neon green.
I tossed it on the ‘to go’ pile on the floor, and delved back into the wardrobe. This tidying-up lark is exhilarating. Why
hadn’t I thought to do it before? It takes no time at all, I’m finding things I’d forgotten I had, and with fewer clothes
cramming the rails I can see what’s what. Yes, there was definitely a semblance of order taking shape, and it was pretty damn
rewarding.


‘I’ve made a decision,’ Lulu said, resolute.

‘What’s that then?’

‘I am not sleeping with a man unless he’s taken me out on three dinner dates. So, if this ever happens again, at least I’ll
have enjoyed three pleasant evenings in fabulous restaurants with exquisite food and fine wines.’ She bounced back onto the
bed.


‘And,’ she crossed her arms triumphantly, ‘I told Esme the surgery cleaner what a crap shag he is, which is the equivalent
of a BBC news flash, so his reputation’s shot to bits.’ She nestled back against the headboard and tucked a strand of long
blonde hair behind her ear. ‘I buried his mobile phone in a pot of chilli con carne on my way out of his flat as well. It’s
not as though I want to hear from him again, is it?’ she reasoned, smiling at her Tiffany ring. I turned from the wardrobe
to face her.


‘Why did you finish with Marcus?’ I asked. A guy she’d dated for three months before finishing with him on Valentine’s Day.
She tapped her finger on her cheek, thinking hard.


‘Do you know, I can’t remember. Marcus was willies and willies ago.’ Her attention drifted. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like? I’m clearing out my wardrobe.’

‘Why?’ she asked, giving a bewildered shrug.

‘Why do people normally clear out their wardrobes?’

She polished off my wine and studied the bottom of the empty glass.

‘Haven’t got a bloody clue. I don’t see the point myself.’ She wafted gracefully from the bed, pulled her tunic over her head
and wriggled out of her trousers. ‘Do you think we should go to a slimming club?’ she asked, tugging on my arm. ‘Take your
clothes off, and stand beside me, in front of the mirror.’ I stepped out of my shorts and pulled my T-shirt over my head.


‘Not bad,’ she said, drawing in her tummy. ‘I mean, we’re not size zero, but, well, we don’t have wobbly bits. And we are
twenty-six, we’re not eighteen any more.’ She flashed her bum to the mirror. ‘I hate those new pants, the low-cut briefs.
I prefer the high-leg. I couldn’t find any in Marks and Spencer yesterday,’ she complained. ‘Do you think the nation’s lingerie
designers are of the opinion that the entire British female population have developed square arses?’


I nodded, scrutinising my own figure and wishing my boobs were smaller.

‘You’re fine. I mean, you’re a C-cup, I’m a D, so of course I’d think you’re fine,’ she said.

Lulu is beautiful. As well as thick blonde hair and huge brown eyes, she has long sweeping eyelashes and amazing high cheekbones.
But in fairness, and she would be the first to agree, I’m not too bad looking either, with my unusual combination of dark
brown hair and pale blue eyes. We both have slimmish, longish legs we tend not to appreciate and size twelve backsides which
we’re prone to obsess over.


She’s a district nurse. It’s mind-blowing, because I know her for the drunken party animal she is. The only bedside manner
I can associate with her is condom related. But apparently she’s the most popular and hardest-working district nurse in her
practice. Her appointments are booked in ten-minute slots. She says she loves her job. Secretly, I think she enjoys whipping
down knickers and stabbing as many buttocks an hour with a needle as she can.


‘We’re out of toilet paper, bread, bin bags … in fact, everything. We need to do a food shop. And we’re down to our last four
bottles of wine,’ she said, still studying her profile. She prodded the cellulite on her thighs, sighed, and knelt to scoop
up her clothes. ‘Get dressed. We’ll go now.’


‘What about this lot?’ I asked, flapping my hand towards the mountain of clothes on the floor.

‘Stick it back in the wardrobe,’ she suggested, with a dismissive backward wave.

I am not sticking it back in the wardrobe, I thought, indignantly. I’d never get round to clearing it out again. I’ve started
getting this place into shape and I’m determined to complete the task. I tucked the clothes under the bed. I suppose I could
sort it out properly another time, there’s no real rush.


‘Ready?’ Lulu hollered from the front door.



Lulu and I share a ground-floor garden flat in a three-storey Victorian building in Tooting, south-west London, the initial
purchase having been hugely financed by my parents. The view from our lounge window is three green wheelie bins and a bus
stop. On this beautiful July afternoon, our six-foot-square patch of grass was awash with colour, as our one and only rose
bush flourished with two beautiful flower heads, both of which Lulu knocked off with her handbag rushing towards the gate.


Lulu’s driving terrifies me. She reversed out of the driveway onto the main road. I buried my face in my handbag. It took
a seven-point turn, but she was glossing her lips at the time, so she did brilliantly considering she could only use her left
hand. As the car shot forward, my neck snapped back and my feet instinct ively stamped in search of the non-existent dual
controls. I gripped the roof handle, otherwise I’d end up nosediving her crotch when she turned right.


‘You might like to listen to the engine,’ I hedged, noticing she was pushing fifty and still in third gear.

‘The engine? Why listen to the engine? Let’s listen to Beyoncé,’ she suggested, switching on the CD player. ‘AAAAHHHH!’

My innards churned.

‘What!?’ I shrieked, gripping my chest with fright.

She covered her eyes with her left hand whilst her right hand piloted the steering wheel.

‘I thought that lorry was going to hit us. I couldn’t watch,’ she panicked.

My heart was going like a bongo drum. I threw her a sideways glance. Near collision over, she studied her eyebrows in the
rear view mirror.


‘Remind me to borrow your tweezers when we get home. Don’t let me forget. I look like Animal from the Muppets,’ she grumbled.

We arrived at Tesco and she strode purposefully through the car park, leaving me to jog behind her.

‘Come on, hurry up,’ she tossed over her shoulder.

I quickly doubled back to squash some money in a Salvation Army collection box. I’d had a chat with God in the car. Firstly,
I’d asked for safe deliverance to Tesco, and secondly, I’d asked him to make me slimmer or, failing that, to make Lulu fatter.
I’d be devastated if she could fit into my Diesel jeans and I couldn’t. I’d promised to donate to good causes if he helped
me out.


Lulu could make an Olympic sport out of pushing a shopping trolley.

‘We don’t need chocolate spread. And biscuits are fattening. Buy low-fat cheese. I’m aiming to lose half a stone this week,’
she prattled.


She trolleyed, torso bent, at high speed towards the Wines and Spirits aisle.

‘Kate Moss is a pipe cleaner and she likes a drink. Grab the leaves,’ she added bossily, meaning the salad.

‘Buy one bottle of Pinot Grigio, get one free. So we might as well buy five to get five for nothing, and six bags of Walkers
crisps. I can’t be a saint all the time. Oh, oh,’ she gasped, falling to her knees in worship of the sparkling Prosecco. ‘It’s
expensive, but we deserve it.’


‘Er, thought you wanted to lose half a stone this week,’ I reminded her.

‘Well, I will if we’ve got bugger all else to eat but crisps and salad, won’t I?’ She stole a French stick from an unsuspecting
woman’s basket.


‘Put that back,’ I hissed, my eyes darting a quick left and right in fear of witnesses.

‘I’m doing her a favour. She’s got an arse as big as Brighton; I need that French stick to keep me sober and there’s none
left in the bakers,’ she justified, marching forward.


Back at home we opened a bottle of wine and unpacked the shopping.

‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Lulu announced. ‘Guess what I bought?’

‘A giant bar of chocolate?’ I replied, hopeful.

Grinning, she sipped her drink.

‘Nope, it’s much better than that.’ Putting down her glass, she delved into the last of the shopping bags.

‘A decent bottle of wine that wasn’t on special offer?’

‘Nope, better than that too.’ She hopped from one foot to the other.

‘Well, if I can’t eat or drink it, I don’t want to know.’

‘Yep, you do,’ she insisted. ‘You do.’ She whipped a couple of boxes from behind her back. ‘Da da, da da,’ she sang.

I glared at them. ‘They’re fitness DVDs,’ I said flatly. She nodded.

‘I bought them when you were at the cash desk and I popped over to pick up some magazines. We’re going to have a night in
and do a workout. Change into your gym kit and meet me in the lounge.’ She placed our empty wine glasses in the sink with
exaggerated care and ushered me through the kitchen door. ‘Come on,’ she cajoled. ‘Chop, chop.’


Lulu has frequent mad notions. Subsequently, we have a hall cupboard full of rubbish. We have ice skating boots, squash and
tennis racquets, Italian language tapes, bowling shoes, two crash helmets for a moped she never bought, a fold-up mountain
bike that has never seen daylight (in fact, it’s never been unfolded) and a set of twenty-five A-Z encyclopaedias.


I strolled into the lounge. Lulu was leaning against the cast iron fireplace, examining the DVDs. I snuggled comfortably in
the corner of our navy chintz sofa and took a second to admire our recent handiwork. Lulu and I had decorated the flat. After
three days of raucous arguments, and testing twenty-eight sample paint pots, we’d decided on magnolia in the bedrooms, magnolia
in the lounge, magnolia in the bathroom and magnolia in the hallway. And thanks to my chums at Visa, we’d splashed out and
laid a spongy powder-blue carpet throughout.


There’s a distressed (to the point of falling to bits) chocolate leather armchair in the corner, a Mexican-pine coffee table
in front of the fireplace and a matching dining table in the window alcove, which doubles as a computer desk. A huge bronze
chandelier dominates the centre of the room. It’s stunning, but bounces off the skull of anyone taller than a troll. There
are also nineteen church candles of various heights and girths looming on, over and across the fireplace, thanks to some pissed
Internet shopping by Lulu. The overall effect provides the perfect setting for a rampant Black Lace session, or a wake.


‘Right, let’s get this show on the road,’ Lulu boomed with authority. ‘Mel B looks amazing. Shall we try hers?’ She waved
the box to illustrate the slender and toned Melanie.


‘Well, we don’t need to lose weight; we just need to tone up. Let’s try the Geri Halliwell one, Geri Body Yoga,’ I suggested.


‘I want to lose a bit of weight from my boobs. Is there a DVD to help with that?’ she asked, tossing the boxes to me, one
at a time. I eyed her D-cups and laughed. Surgery was surely her only option. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could take this seriously,’
Lulu sniffed. ‘Diet and exercise play a crucial role in maintaining a healthy and well-balanced lifestyle. Sometimes I despair
at your slothful attitude.’


Slothful? I thought. She’s the one with coffee cups and wine gums soldered to her dressing table.

We agreed on Learn to Step and stood side-by-side, eyes fixed on the television. It was torturous, complicated and, in my opinion, dangerous. I was
wilting and sorely tempted to suggest we watch Friends instead. And Lulu, who was eagerly adding a bit of bounce to her lunges, was nearing physical collapse.


The end of the warm-up flashed on the screen.

‘Shall we take a break?’ I wheezed, bent double.

With forced reluctance she agreed, and we both flopped down on the sofa.

‘Do you think we should watch it for a bit? We don’t understand the technical terminology, do we?’ I pointed out lamely. ‘When
she says “horseshoe” or “step-touch”, we have to stop and watch to see what she means so we end up missing the beat.’


Lulu dabbed a line of sweat from her top lip with one of our new cream cushions.

‘Yes, yes, of course, I was thinking exactly the same thing myself. We should definitely familiarise ourselves with the routines
first.’ She swiped her brow with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll fetch us a drink. We don’t want to dehydrate.’


She returned with a bottle of wine propped in an ice bucket and two glasses.

‘OK, we’ll watch it through once and then do it ourselves,’ she stated decisively, handing me a full-to-the-brim glass. She
settled on the sofa next to me and stretched her legs alongside mine, on the coffee table. We sipped our wine as our heartbeats
steadied, and studied our trainers.


‘So,’ she sighed, ‘you need a job. Have you registered with an agency?’

‘Well, no.’ I gave a throaty cough. ‘I’ve, well, I’ve decided on a career change to be honest, so—’

‘A career change!’ she interrupted.

I already had a speech prepared. I adopted Miss Moneypenny tones.

‘We spend all our money on eating, pissing it up and going on holiday—’

‘At least no one can accuse us of wasting it,’ she reasoned.

‘Exactly. But, well, I started thinking about how great it would be to do all those things and get paid for it.’

She wiggled curious brows. ‘So you’re looking for a job as a fat, wine-guzzling ice cream seller?’

I hid behind my glass.

‘No … I want to be a tour guide,’ I told her.

She swivelled to face me.

‘Oh, you do?’ she said.

‘Yes, I do,’ I replied, matter-of-fact.

‘Since when?’

I faltered. ‘Since, well, since … since we’ve been watching the holiday programme on a Monday night,’ I admitted.

‘We watch that forensic science programme on a Tuesday. Why don’t you get a job as a coroner and start chopping up bodies.
Start with the doctor I slept with; he doesn’t need his flute.’ She jabbed the remote control, switching the television off.
‘You don’t know the first thing about being a tour guide!’


‘What is there to know?’ I shot back.

Lulu slurped some of her wine. ‘I don’t know what there is to know, do I? Because I’m a district nurse, and you don’t know
because you studied Media.’


‘I want to travel, meet lots of new people and get paid to do it.’ I squirmed. This sounded obtuse and hollow even to me.

‘In that case, have you considered a career as an astronaut? You,’ she said, pointing an accusatory finger, ‘are the last
person I’d put forward for a job as a tour guide.’


I tucked my legs beneath my bum and rounded on her.

‘Why? It’s not as though there’s such a thing as a degree in Touring, is there?’

She thumped her glass on the table and began counting on her fingers.

‘One,’ she reproached, ‘you have no sense of direction. Two,’ she stared at me with unblinking brown eyes, ‘your suitcase
was the subject of a security-controlled explosion when we went to Spain, and we ended up in custody in Malaga for eleven
hours until your dad bailed us out. Three,’ she shivered and addressed the ceiling, ‘and the worst experience of my life by
far, was when the police were called to our hotel in Turkey. Fourteen silk carpets were delivered to our room because you were practising your Turkish or Arabic or French or whatever that language was that you made up with the old man in the shop.
You thought he was talking about his fourteen children! The carpets beat us back from the market! I thought you were dead
clever and multilingual, and all the while you were talking out your arse. And I was doing lots of nodding because I wanted
to look dead clever and multilingual as well.’


‘You,’ I reminded her smugly, ‘cried your eyes out in Turkey.’

‘Too right I cried. I’ve seen that film, Midnight Express. We were ambushed by three policemen, the hotel manager, that lunatic dwarf carpet salesmen, and his two seven-foot heavies.’ She reached for the wine bottle and discovered it was empty.
‘I thought we were never going to get out of that one. I nearly wet myself when that policeman took his handcuffs out of his
pocket.’ She heaved a sigh and shuddered. ‘And don’t you ever forget that you have me to thank for your freedom, because if
I hadn’t passed out with fright and the British Embassy hadn’t gotten involved, we’d have been done for. I couldn’t speak
for two days! Remember you thought I’d gone mute so you bought me a writing pad and an Etch A Sketch?’


‘Anyway,’ I said, dismissing her sarcasm with a wave of my hand, ‘I think I have a natural aptitude for socialising and creating
a jolly party atmosphere.’


‘Yeah, you do,’ she agreed forcefully, ‘but then you pass out and wake up with a hangover twelve hours later. Do you mean
to tell me that you’re contemplating taking responsibility for escorting people to a foreign land with the aim of bringing
them back in one piece? It just won’t happen, trust me.’ She emptied her glass. ‘If you bag a job as a tour guide, someone
will sue you, or you’ll end up on News at Ten, or God knows what. You’re the least suited candidate for a job like that.’
She stood to tidy the table. ‘You couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.’


She does exaggerate. My brain whirled for something to fire back with. It didn’t take long.


‘Hah,’ I blurted, ‘look who’s talking.’ I pointed an accusatory finger.

‘What?’ she retorted, bristling.

‘You booked us on that nightmare City Slickers Break. How could you mistake a shop-till-you-drop extravaganza for a long weekend
in the desert?’


‘The website was misleading,’ she insisted hotly.

‘Misleading?’ I spat. ‘We both had an allergic reaction to the fleas or bugs or whatever creature it is that hover around
a horse’s arse. We suffered horrific, and what we worried might have been permanent, constipation because our backsides refused
to have a number two in the open air.’


Her fingers whispered over now-flaming cheeks.

I was on a roll … ‘We had to borrow smelly clothes from smelly men, which were ten sizes too big for us, because we’d packed
smart-casual and evening wear. We arrived at that revolting ranch wearing Chloe stilettos. Remember? Eh? And that hag of a
cook had to lend us shoes and they looked like dead ferrets. In fact, we don’t know that they weren’t dead ferrets,’ I chided.
‘And you shagged that cowboy! You kept calling him Hawk, when his name was Hank, and I had to sleep in our tent all by myself, which was terrifying. I even started wondering who I could shag, just for the sake of a bit of company, so I let that dingo,
hyena thing sleep with me, because I thought it was a dog, only to discover I was lucky not to have been eaten, and—’


She raised the flat of her hand. ‘We each lost half a stone, if you remember,’ she interrupted defensively.

‘Yes, we did, but only because we were ravaged by disease and malnutrition from living in the wild like, like, savages.’

‘We were not living in the wild.’

‘What were we doing then?’

‘Camping.’

‘Exactly … camping! Why, since the invention of hotels, would anyone want to do that?’ Lulu tossed her hair over her shoulder
in a sharp jerky movement. I ploughed on. ‘And remember the rash? The rash we had that kept us locked in this flat together
for nine days?’ Her face crumbled at the memory. ‘You turned all the mirrors to the wall, and sat in the bath crying for hours
on end. And I got that massive lump on my head when I fainted on your bedroom floor because you had so much calamine lotion on your face that when I came in with a cup of
tea I thought you were dead and rigor mortis had set in.’


Her mouth formed an indignant rosebud. ‘Let’s have a gin and tonic before we go to bed,’ she suggested pinkly.

As usual, we drank too much. Despite this, I still didn’t manage to get much sleep. The piercing wail of the timer on the
cooker woke me three times. On cue, Lulu leaped out of bed, belted down the hallway, thundered into the lounge and dived onto
the computer. She’s bidding for a chaise longue on eBay. She tells me it’s George IV, circa 1825, with scrolled foliate decoration
in pure gold leaf and upholstered in crimson damask. I pointed out it won’t fi